


Together, Apart

by Drakontion



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakontion/pseuds/Drakontion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>She had a picture of him on her desk. She didn't know where it had come from, only that it was there when she took over the new Normandy. Probably someone in Cerberus put it there. They knew everything, after all. But still, it was there, and she didn't put it away. She had come to treasure those moments when she walked into her cabin and the picture flickered on and there he was, looking off to the side, but still him. A bit older maybe, or maybe just a little bit more weary. Almost and not quite as she remembered him.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Together, Apart

**Author's Note:**

> She had a picture of him on her desk. She didn't know where it had come from, only that it was there when she took over the new Normandy. Probably someone in Cerberus put it there. They knew everything, after all. But still, it was there, and she didn't put it away. She had come to treasure those moments when she walked into her cabin and the picture flickered on and there he was, looking off to the side, but still him. A bit older maybe, or maybe just a little bit more weary. Almost and not quite as she remembered him.

She had a picture of him on her desk. She didn't know where it had come from, only that it was there when she took over the new Normandy. Probably someone in Cerberus put it there. They knew everything, after all. But still, it was there, and she didn't put it away. She had come to treasure those moments when she walked into her cabin and the picture flickered on and there he was, looking off to the side, but still him. A bit older maybe, or maybe just a little bit more weary. Almost and not quite as she remembered him.

It had a series of fingerprints on it from where she ran her finger down his pixelated jaw, the way she had that last night before Ilos. Each time she did it she remembered the feel of his skin as she brushed her fingertips down the strong curve of his jawbone to his lips, sweeping softly over them. And each time she was pained anew to feel only the cool unyielding plastic of the covering protecting his picture. No more warm skin, no more rough stubble, no more captured breath or soft lips.

And she would snatch her hand away and vow not to do it again, only to catch herself repeating it like a devotional gesture, a physical mantra, because every time she sat down she thought of him.

oOo

He didn't have a picture of her, only his memories. He'd never had one when she was alive and they'd spent as many fleeting moments together as possible. After she died he was too full of guilt and remorse to find one. And when he discovered she was alive, _alive_ , he was too hurt and betrayed to even contemplate the idea. His memories were all he had of her, and half the time he remembered her as she'd looked that last night before Ilos, when she'd finally relaxed her commanding officer face, let down her hair, and softened beneath him. When he had reveled in finally being as close to her as he'd wanted to for so long, and they had spent their passion and desperation on each other.

The other half of the time he thought of her now, as she was on Horizon. Almost and not quite as he remembered her. The scar that bisected her right eyebrow was gone, and instead she had fine tracery of broken skin and scar tissue betraying the underlying glow of cybernetics. She looked younger, harder, tighter than before, but her eyes were wearier. He missed that scar on her eyebrow. He'd traced it in their secluded moments, invariably leading down her cheekbone to her mouth where he'd skim her smooth lips and feel her warm breath.

And he'd find himself repeating the motion on his own eyebrow as he sat, staring into nothing, and he'd snatch his hand away and vow not to do it again. But he repeated the gesture like a devotion, a mantra, because every time he sat down he thought of her.


End file.
